


The Case of Colney Hatch

by Sex_in_spats



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: AU, Detective Noir, Ghosts, M/M, Mystery, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sex_in_spats/pseuds/Sex_in_spats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noir-ish AU set in contemporary Britain, featuring an OC narrator and ghost!Bertie and ghost!Jeeves. Peter Clark, a paranormal investigator who doesn't believe in ghosts, tells the story of the mystery that changed him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Ataratah, who did a marvelous job as a beta.

When my cell phone went off I was between cases the same way an ocean liner in the middle of the Pacific could be said to be between America and China. Behind me lay the utterly mundane and featureless incident with the poltergeist in the attic. That happened months ago. Since then, nothing. Not a peep from the usual parade of cranks, schizophrenics and pranksters who are drawn to my agency like maggots to rotting meat. Luckily for me the poltergeist case paid enough to keep me stocked with enough gin and cigarettes to pass the long monotonous weeks. But by the time the phone rang that morning my patience had run out faster than my bank account. In my line of work, if the pagans don't get to you the boredom will.

 

So there I was, slouched in my chair in the tiny office I rent by the week, half out of my mind and half out of cigarettes when phone rang. Since premonitions are rot, I hadn't the foggiest notion what was waiting for me behind the illuminated screen which read “Caller Unknown.” So I answered it.

 

“This is Clark.”

 

“Have I reached Clark's Paranormal Investigative Agency?” The man sounded polite but exhausted.

 

“Yeah. What can I do for you?”

 

“My name is Ronald Cartwright, and I own a private security company. I have a bit of a situation on my  
hands.”

 

“Yeah? What kind of situation?”

 

There was a pause. “Well, it's with a property we've recently been contracted to patrol. I . . . would it be possible to discuss this in person?”

 

I stubbed my cigarette out. “Sure. But you should know I don't do seances, exorcisms, channeling, or anything of that ilk. If you want me to check something out because you've had a problem, I'm your man. Otherwise, I can recommend you to someone who believes in that kind of rubbish.”

 

There was another pause. Talking like this may be bad for business, but it's sure as hell a good way to weed out some of the fruitier of the fruit loops who try to engage my services.

 

“Of course not, Mr. Clark. I only called you because you were recommended to me by someone I used to work with. When may I drop in?”

 

“Whenever you want. You know where I am?”

 

“I can be there in fifteen minutes. I am not far from your offices.”

 

I glanced quickly at the standing army of empty gin bottles had amassed on my desk, the overflowing ashtray and the cigarettes strewn across the floor like confetti from a party that died out early.

 

“You'd better make it thirty.”

 

***

 

I suppose before I go any further I should tell you who I am and what I do and why the Case of Colney Hatch came close to breaking my sanity. I have never bothered to write up one of my cases before and I don't know if I will be able to take another one on after what happened. And it's not that I think other people should know about it. I have no idea what it tells me about death and what happens after. I don't know what it means, period. But I must write it to clear my head, to wrap my mind around these events so maybe I can leave this behind me without the help of half a bottle of liquid oblivion.

 

My name is Peter Clark, I have worked as a paranormal investigator for ten years and I don't believe in the afterlife. I am what you might call a vulgar materialist, but in spite of my philosophical disposition, I have an uncanny sensitivity to things that aren't there, that shouldn’t exist. I sense presences. I can feel affective alterations from invisible sources. I don't see dead people (generally), but I can walk into an empty room and know I am not alone.

 

When I started the agency it was half a joke. It's a long sob story, but thanks to my “gift” my career as a scientist came to a sudden and inglorious end. I was angry, I was between jobs, and I wanted answers. I knew these things were real, whatever they were. And I knew how to get rid of them. The average paranormal investigator is the kind of weak-minded dolt who thinks that their dead grandmother talks to them or that Jesus is manifesting in their refrigerator mold, but I understand what it is like to approach the unknown systematically, _scientifically_. I might have missed my chance to make next breakthrough in chemical engineering, but I sure as hell wasn't going to retreat into a fantasy world where dead loved ones spend their time prancing about among the stars. Stars are gigantic balls of burning gas and there is no hereafter.

 

I began my work with the assumption that these “ghosts” were not really fully present or self-conscious. I understood that they were not the spirits of people, exactly, but vestiges of some sort, minimally self-conscious. Generally, hauntings happen when some trauma has occurred, destroying the organism but leaving some psychical residue. In acute cases, so much of the psyche had been entailed in the trauma that the residue is capable of recognizing the environment and the energy of the living, and will sometimes use objects or “manifestations” to communicate.

 

That's where I come in. Not exactly something I could tell the board of the British Society for Psychological Studies, but I guess you could call me a therapist for ghosts.

 

***

 

Cartwright arrived at the office half an hour later dressed in a security uniform and carrying an oversized umbrella. A glance at his conservative haircut and his tastelessly bland tie told me he was probably a man without an imagination, and in my line of work an unimaginative client is a boon. I gave him my slickest smile and offered him a cigarette, which he waved away. I shrugged and lit mine. “Have a seat, Mr. Cartwright.”

 

He lowered himself onto the chair and looked at my cigarette incredulously. “Do they let you smoke in this building?”

 

“The kind of rent I pay, I don't think they'd care if I were selling organs on the black market.” I took my notebook out of the desk drawer, flipping through it to find a page that hadn't been on the business end of a spilled G&T. “So what's the problem?”

 

“Like I told you over the line, I am the owner of a private security force. Well, six months ago I got a call from a client who just bought this property which had been on the market for over ten years. It was a place called Colney Hatch, which up until about 1995 had been a huge sanitarium in the country not far from here. Old place, lots of buildings—even had its own movie theater. The furniture and equipment hadn't been auctioned off. It had just been closed down and everything was left where it was. Anyway, she said that it'd been vandalised and was in pretty bad repair. Most of it had been looted and some of the buildings were letting the rain in and beginning to rot. She wanted to discourage the local youth and vandals from trespassing while she got the funds to convert it into a hotel, so she hired me and my crew to keep an eye out.

 

“From the first, there were complaints from those on duty about strange things happening during their shift. At first it was just odd noises. I'd just hired a new kid for the job, and after the first night he abandoned his post because he heard things. I fired the poor lad.” He shook his head ruefully. “The place is eerie enough by itself, of course, and I'd chalked it up to an overactive imagination. Then as time went on, even my veteran employees reported hearing things. Faint footsteps following them as they walked through the halls. A man's voice in the distance. No words, just a despairing, nattering sort of noise. I scolded them for acting like frightened chidren, but after a while things got worse. While he was in one of the wards, Brad heard the distant voice again, and when he looked up he saw a man's face on the outside of the third story window. Just for a moment. Said he couldn't really make out his features, but swore he saw it all the same. From then on those on watch began to see a dark shadow gliding into one of the rooms, and the voices and footsteps got worse. Marta heard it once and said she heard a frantic voice saying 'birdie, birdie, birdie' over and over before it faded into a moan. She's the only one who's been able to make out words.”

 

“How long did this go on?”

 

“Three weeks, on and off.” Cartwright pursed his lips. “It's a bad business. I don't know if I believe in this sort of thing myself, but so many of my employees say they saw or heard something in the godawful place. I've known some of them for 20 years, and none of them have come up with this kind of garbage before. Normally I'd just ignore it and tell them to get back to work, but no one will patrol there at night. I'm in a bind, Mr. Clark. My business is a small one and I can't afford to lose this client to some spook.”

 

“I see.” I lit another cigarette. It was plain even after our brief conversation that Mr. Cartwright didn't have the disposition to invent a story like this. The first rule of paranormal investigation is always look for a natural explanation. More than half the time the ghost in the machine is just a loose cog. “I'll need to interview everyone in your company who has seen something. I'll need to have access to their employment history, the history of your company, as well as someone to lead me through Colney Hatch during the day. And,” I added, sizing up Cartwright's probable income, “a security deposit. Cash. My rate is 60 pounds a day, plus expenses. First three days up front.”

 

“Why on earth should I give you access to the private information of my most trusted employees?” Cartwright snapped.

 

“Because, Mr. Cartwright,” I told him in a level voice, “I need to know everything I can about every piece of this problem. I need to isolate the variables. If I bring you a 'spook,' fine. If I don't, I strongly suggest that you place a want ad in the paper and find yourself new employees. Either way, you'll be better off than you are now.”

 

Mr. Cartwright deflated. “Very well,” he sighed and pulled out his wallet. I almost felt sorry for him. He was clearly desperate.

 

I had him sign on the appropriate dotted lines and sent him on his way before watching him get into his car from the greasy-paned window. Clients are all the same. They want me to fetch them ghosts and get angry when I bring them improbable imposters, optical illusions or psychological delusions. Mostly, they want their money back. Well, nuts to them, I thought as I slipped the 180 quid into my breast pocket. I care about getting results. I couldn't care less whether or not they were results my clients liked.


	2. Chapter 2

The blueprints for Colney Hatch looked like nothing so much as a twisted spine and its history was as gruesome as its floor plan. Buildings sprawled across a mile of British countryside, connected by underground tunnels like vertebrae. It was built in 1904, the woman behind the reference desk told me, but buildings had been added to it until 1945. In its heyday it had housed 1500 patients who ranged from homicidal maniacs deemed criminally deranged to your garden-variety loonies who thought daisy chains grew out of their arses. The history of the facility was not so much a history of a building as a taxonomy of psychiatry's biggest blunders. Ice baths, isolation treatment, electroshock therapy, lobotomies, experimental drug regimens had all been administered under the watchful care of the overseeing physicians and psychiatrists. In the 60s there had even been a lab for animal experimentation, the details of which, combined with the whiskey I'd imbibed after lunch, nearly turned my stomach. The operation had been started by one Sir Roderick Glossop, a psychiatrist who specialized in nervous disorders. He ran the place until 1954 when he retired and left it to the care of a board of directors. The place had been closed down after investigations concerning the treatment of the inmates in 1994. The government took control of the property and left every last filing cabinet and straightjacket lying where it was to rot. By now, it was virtually a ruin.

Of course, there was a mortuary too. Figures.

In short, I concluded as I left the library with blueprints tucked under my arm, the perfect spot for a haunting.

How disappointing. This mystery was probably going to be one of two things, and either option was enough to make me nostalgic for the poltergeist case. These kinds of poetically macabre locations with horrifying histories could contain so much traumatic residue I would be as useful as an imaginary umbrella in a thunderstorm. In which case it was likely to be a godawful time for me and would leave me with nothing to show for it. Alternately, the sight of the rows of rusting bed frames, surgical implements, or the slabs in that morgue had made the generally featureless minds employed by Cartwright snap collectively. In which case I was as useful as an actual umbrella in the Sahara.

I returned to my apartment and poured over the blueprints and the written transcripts I had made from my interviews with the guards. I wondered idly how many days I could work on this case before charging Cartwright would legally qualify as fraud. The one thing this case had going for it was that the hauntings occurred in one location: Delia Hall. What were the chances that the guards would all have an experience in the same building if there wasn't something there? I had read that Delia hall was a large three-storey affair named after Roderick Glossop's late wife. It housed the dining hall on the first floor while its uppermost storey was storage space. The middle floor had been a wing for clients loony enough to remain as inpatients at the hospital but not liable to strangle someone with the strings of their hospital gown. The guards reported that they'd had experiences on all three floors, although mostly concentrated on the third floor. This gave me a glimmer of hope that this case wouldn't be a total wash—that, and the 180 quid, which opened the breathtaking vista of at least a week where I could eat and pay rent at the same time.

I rolled up the blueprints, stood, stretched, and knocked back a final drink before turning in. Tomorrow I would make my first look at Colney Hatch and see if this case would be the final nail in the coffin of my ill-conceived career.

***

The wind blew strong and the sky looked like a storm was gathering in the west. It was as if the universe knew I had a deep-seated hatred for melodrama and decided to send the dark and portentous clouds out of spite. _But_ , I thought as I finally came into view of Colney Hatch, _it isn't as if this place needs the enhancement._ The sanatorium was so huge and sprawling it staggered the imagination to think that it was abandoned. Something quite independent of any possible paranormal activity oppressed the atmosphere. Windows gaping black in the growing gloom of the day stared sightlessly over the hills in vacant rows. The grass, frosted white, grew in motley patches on the lawns. Gardens that had been tended carefully for almost a hundred years were overgrown with black and wilted weeds. Erratic, obscene lines of graffiti zigzagged across the walls. A strange lifetime of looking for strange things lurking in strange places only slightly inured me to the purely material human horror of this place. As I pulled into the main parking lot where I was to meet Cartwright, he emerged from one of the satellite buildings. He gave me a tour of the place, saving Delia Hall for last.

The tour took us hours. Cartwright lead me through dark, claustrophobic tunnels winding underground leading from one building or ward to another. I passed through countless corridors lined with ancient mattresses rotting into rusting bed frames. Smoking rooms and offices for the doctors with antique newspapers still spread out on them as if the occupants had just stepped out for tea. Music halls filled with chairs turned on end and pianos with broken keys. The water damage was incredible. Everywhere the paint curled off the walls and in most places the ground glinted with broken glass. I hated the place before we even got to Delia Hall.

The dim, black and white picture I had seen of Delia Hall taken just after its construction in the 1930s could never have prepared me for the full effect of its three brick storeys, gables and windows standing against the backdrop of the agitated sky. To delay the moment I would be obliged to step into that black threshold I lit a cigarette. Get a grip on yourself, Peter, I told myself sternly. What the hell kind of paranormal investigator are you?

I stepped on the glowing stub of my cigarette and nodded for Cartwright to lead on. The sign-in desk sat at an odd angle directly in front of us and a hallway extended down a good ways to either side. We walked to the right and I found myself in an open cafeteria. Some of the tables were still there, and there were bits and pieces of broken crockery on the floor. Then we retraced our steps and made our way up a spiral stair case which lead to an open landing and another hallway. I couldn't have explained why, but that hallway unsettled me more than the rest of the sanitarium.

It was a long corridor lined with doorways stamped with numbers. Every door stood open. The cells were modular, and while there were no bars on the windows, the sashes were sealed shut from the outside. A bed frame stripped bare of its mattress, a desk, and a chair were all each room contained. Passing by each opened door to peer inside filled me with intense apprehension. Each sinister cell probably had enough of a history to guarantee its horror would echo in ways I was not eager to witness. It was in one of these rooms—the guard could not say which—that the man's face had appeared in the window two weeks ago. Once we'd passed through this purgatory of open doors, we reached the final floor through a narrow spiral staircase. It was an attic full of filing cabinets, although leaks in the roof had probably destroyed most of the records they contained. It was here that I decided to set my equipment up for the night and wait until sundown, steeling myself and hoping at the same time there was something for me to see.


	3. Chapter 3

7:00 PM at Colney Hatch, and the last vestiges of sunlight had disappeared. Moonlight filtered through the broken windows of the third floor of Delia Hall. Once I had my EVP recorder at the ready, the first step of the investigation was to ask a few questions and alert the remnant to my presence. In spite of the years I've spent asking these kinds of questions, I always feel idiotic standing in an empty room talking to myself. Hell, I thought, maybe instead of sitting in abandoned sanatoriums at night talking to the furniture I should look into getting a nice little padded cell of my own. That night, I couldn't shake the feeling that in spite of how badly I needed the cash, I didn't want anyone to answer. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that the sooner I got the damn thing to talk to me the sooner I could get away from this place.

“Is there anyone here with me?”

Nothing. I walked slowly up and down the hall and into the adjoining room. I sensed a presence, that's for sure, but it was so weak that if I hadn't years of experience under my belt I could have made myself believe I only imagined it. I tried a different tactic.

“Did you work here?”

Nothing. I pushed opened a door and continued.

“Look around you. This place has been abandoned for years. Why are you still here?”

Nothing.

“Did they keep you here against your will? I'm not a shrink or anything. I just want to help you. If you are here, make a sign. Say something.”

Nothing moved except the October wind hissing through the broken planes of glass. Not even the sound of an owl or the scuttling of a mouse broke the silence.

But there was something there. I could feel it.

“I know you're here, dammit. Don't try to hide. Do you really want to spend the next century sitting in this dump? 'Cause I've been here for half a day and all I want to do is go home and forget this place ever existed.” Pause. “Is this your home?”

Nothing. I returned to the room where my other equipment waited for me, turned on a small lamp and waited.

11:30 PM. Still absolutely nothing and my nerves were more frayed than the paint curling off the walls.

12:25 AM. I thought I could hear shuffling footsteps in the other room, but when I walked over with my EVP recorder and gave a repeat performance, there was nothing. _Probably the blasted wind knocking something against the roof_ , I thought resentfully. _That's the problem with these old buildings. Who knows what pieces might be decaying noisily in ways likely to unhinge belief in the finality of death. I really ought to write a paper on the subject. Maybe if I used brain scanning and proved something about human brain activity or somesuch I could pull my academic career out of the toilet._

 _Eh, it's all been done before anyway._

 _I could use a drink._

1:15 AM. I wanted a drink like a man in hell wants ice water. _Or_ , I thought, _a smoke._ I poked irritably at the overflowing pencil holder which the security guards had rehabilitated as an ash tray. Of course, I more-or-less confined my drinking to stretches of unemployment which, lucky me, tended to encompass most of the year. And smoking on site was a bad idea. Who knew how the presence of fire and heat would affect a spirit? Ferreting these things out was difficult enough without worrying about how a ghost responds to second hand smoke.

2:00 AM. _To hell with it._ I reached inside my jacket and retrieved my lights. _Nothing's going to show tonight._

I had no sooner gotten my cigarette lit and inhaled when a door slammed somewhere on the third floor. The sound was so abrupt I fumbled my cigarette and nearly burned myself. Cursing, I picked it up, shoved it into the corner of my mouth, grabbed the EVP recorder and was about to head in the direction of the noise when I froze in place.

It was there. In the room. With me.

And it was not happy.

Though every nerve in my body screamed bloody murder at the thought of sitting in the dark with this thing, I switched the torch off and listened. A voice, a man's voice, sobbed indistinctly in the corner. I heard footsteps in the room walking, getting closer.

My hand shaking, I took the cigarette end out of my mouth and asked it a question. “Who are you?”

The footsteps continued and a shadow passed by me in the dark. My stomach felt like a bag of agitated snakes. I put my courage to the sticking place and asked, “Why are you up here? This is where they kept the records of the inmates. The cells are in the floors below. What-”

Suddenly the footsteps began to race towards the staircase which lead downstairs. Swearing again, I dropped my cigarette hastily in the ash tray, switched my torch on and chased after the disappearing spirit. My pursuit lead me to the second floor, the one with the hall full of doors. Knew I hated this corridor for a reason, I thought.I would have had a hell of a job keeping up with it if it had made a beeline for the other side of the building, but instead it was halfway down the hall, running in and out of the cells. I heard the voice saying something over and over, too indistinct to be understood. I willed myself to put on another burst of speed, silently cursing my smoking habit, when the footsteps once again began to run away from me down the stairs.

Down, down it went and I followed. I was so intent on not losing track of it, after having waited for so long for the bloody thing to make an appearance, I didn't pay attention to where we were in the going. When I could no longer hear traces of footsteps, I found myself in the bottom level of Delia Hall in a room which, judging by the remains of the stove, trays, pots and pans must have been the kitchen. I caught my breath and said to the silent air, “This is the kitchen. Is this where you belong? Is this where-”

It was then that I finally felt it. Not only had I not lost the spirit, but it was there radiating some of the strongest emotions I have ever sensed. It was like being belted in the stomach with confusion, rage and . . . loss. I stopped in my tracks, momentarily paralyzed by the intensity. For the first time, I became truly afraid.

A dish hit the wall five feet from where I stood and shattered. A low, unearthly moaning filled the room. The bulb in my torch blinked twice then plunged me into complete darkness. I may be a tough son of a bitch, but part of my job is to know when to get the hell out.

I bolted blindly through the cafeteria to the main reception desk and out into the frigid night, thankful I had the sense to leave my keys in the pocket of my coat. It was not until I had left miles of moonlit roads between me and Colney Hatch that my hands stopped shaking.


	4. Chapter 4

4:00 AM the same morning found me slumped over my kitchen table considering the mysteries of existence, the facts of the case, and the bottom of my third G&T. If nothing else, years of professional experience taught me that disturbing encounters are less unsettling with hard liquor cushioning the system. And the mad method had delivered up the goods once more. After writing up the events in my notebook and listening to the EVP recording, I devised a plan for identifying the thing which haunted Delia Hall.

First of all, I knew that the spirit was probably strong enough to understand the verbal utterances of the living at least minimally. It seemed disoriented, and since it had not started running away from me until I told it where it was, I doubted it belonged in the top floor. Which meant that it had some tie to the ward of open doors. Given that it had not simply run down towards the kitchen but dashed in and out of the cells until I'd chased it, I suspected it belonged there. Thus, it had probably been a patient, or perhaps a doctor or nurse with a strong connection to a room. Of course, this did not account for the behavior of the spirit in the kitchen, but I was not overly eager to return to that particular spot and could think of no working hypothesis which would connect that incident with the spirit's movement in the ward.

If the spirit could understand my voice, my best bet was to find a list of the patients who had been in the rooms and read their names aloud to gauge its response. A long shot, but , I reflected as I switched the lights out and fell into my bed for a few hours of troubled sleep, sometimes the long shots are the lucky ones.

* * *

If the word 'serendipitous' didn't make me sick to my stomach, I'd be tempted to use it. Not only had I been able to obtain a list of the patients who had inhabited the ward throughout the ninety years Colney Hatch was in operation within a matter of days, I also learned that it had been a space reserved for patients who were locked up for good. This meant the list was substantially shorter than it would have been otherwise, though the names sitting in the passenger's side of my car promised me a long night all the same.

Driving back to Colney Hatch in cold blood in the middle of the night took all of my resolve. For a few evil moments I waited in my car in the empty parking lot, staring at the looming, black shapes of the buildings and graffitied “Visitor's Entrance” sign illuminated by my headlamps. I got a grip on myself, grabbed my backup torch, my gear, and the list and walked slowly into the darkness towards Delia Hall.

Now that I knew what this thing felt like, I sensed its presence as soon as I set foot in the building. It was faint, like the hum of a computer turned on in a distant room. I walked past the reception desk, up the winding stairs and into the ward. I paused before the narrow hallway lined with open doors and felt my loathing for the place resurface. Reminding myself that this case was the only thing standing between me and the dole, I stepped into Room 1 and began.

“Is your name Mary-Anne Braithwright?”

I waited for a bit of time, before repeating, “Mary-Anne Braithwright. Did you know her? Are you Mary-Anne Braithwright?”

No response. I tried the next name on the list for Room 1. “Carl Andrew Dover. Is your name Carl Dover?”  
And so on down the list until I finished the names for the first room and moved across the hall to the next one. Saying the name once, twice, pausing, going to the next name, repeat. Over and over again from room to room, keeping my EVP recorder running all the while and my senses alert.

By the time I reached the rooms numbering in the teens my patience had exhausted itself. There were a total of 40 rooms in the ward and a lot of names. Time and time again nothing happened. As I started in on Room 22 and realized I'd been at this for hours I began to question my earlier uncharacteristic fit of optimism. What are the chances this far-fetched ruse would even work? I forced myself to continue. Sylvia Rose Graham. Martin David Johnston. Frederick Boris Katastinski. Room 28. Room 29. Room 30. Room 31. On and on down that interminable hallway.

Until Room 32. “Marianna Lynn Basque. Is that your name, Marianna Lynn Basque?” Pause. “Did you know Marianna Lynn Basque? Was she called Mary? Are you Mary?” Nothing.

Next on the list. “Bertram Wilberforce Wooster-”

Suddenly, it was there in the room with me and the room was colder. A shockwave of sorrow and fear hit me. My torch died and loud footsteps echoed in agitated circles around the room.

Then it began to speak. “Birdie, birdie, birdie . . .” it said over and over and over in a man's voice. I couldn't be entirely sure of the words because they were half-articulate and punctuated by what sounded like sobbing.

I wish I could tell you that I stayed and grilled the spirit with questions as any investigator worth his salt gun would do, but all I could think at the time was how I would rather be anywhere but standing in the dark with this frantic spirit. So I left it to continue its spectral business in Room 32, praying as I beat a hasty but dignified retreat that now the spirit Wooster had found his room, maybe that would be the end of the Case of Colney Hatch. But I knew like I knew my name was Peter Clark that this was one spirit which had not been lain to rest. At least I now had its name.

* * *

Colney Hatch is no less unpleasant in the daytime, so I was hell-bent on making this expedition a quick one. Every record on Wooster from the asylum was still in Colney Hatch, and before I delved into secondary research I wanted to know what it was that had happened to him there. The filing cabinets in the third floor had not been tampered with and it seemed the hospital had meticulously organized records, though many were waterlogged. For Wooster, Bertram Wilberforce I found nothing but a single mouldering notebook which reeked of decay. I slipped it into my briefcase and hightailed it out of there. I settled down to read once I was back in the reassuring comfort of my office. The rain lashed the windows as I examined the outside of the notebook carefully. Black blooms of mold made all but the patient's name unreadable. I opened the first page and while it was also flecked with discolourations, the first few pages at least were legible.

 

Case Notes.

Patient: Bertran Wilberforce Wooster

Age: 35, Male

Committed by Lady Agatha Worpleston and Dahlia Travers, Subject's aunts

Overseeing Psychiatrist: Dr. Otto Weininger

Admitted: January 15th, 1934

Disorders: Pronounced homosexual tendencies, recently suffered total nervous collapse.

 

January 16th, 1934 Preliminary Notes & Diagnosis:

Subject despondent and uncommunicative. Refuses to answer basic questions. Displays short outburst of anger. Says he does not wish to be cured. Demonstrating no awareness of perversion or shame. Has been observed in cell weeping. Refused visits from friends and relatives. Reduced appetite.

I skimmed the next few pages of Weininger's notes. They described behavior much like the initial diagnosis with apparently no improvement, until an entry from six months later caught my eye:

 

September 3rd, 1934

Patient apprehended attempting suicide at 5:16 AM. . On inspection, patient had stolen a bread knife and sharpened it against the metal bedframe. . Patient moved to secure ward in Delia Hall, Room 32, and placed under continual surveillance. If patient continues to show no improvement, may need to begin electrical shock therapy.

 

I whistled through my teeth. Mystery solved. Frying a perfectly innocent gay man was a sure recipe for a restless spirit if anything was. I continued to read and felt my self-satisfaction cave into nausea. Something about the perfectly neat and assured slant of the doctor's writing and the euphemistic psychobabble of the 1930s made my blood run cold. Reading between the lines of the case notes, I imagined Wooster's spirit, already broken by whatever happened before he came to Colney Hatch, ground to dust under the confident, eminently scientific heel of the unimpeachably professional Dr. Weininger. That meticulous document outlined the increasing regularity of the shock treatment and continuing non-compliance of the patient, who suffered progressive disorientation and memory loss. That, I thought, explains why the spirit is so confused in the hall; he probably was so shaken up by the shock treatments his vestige has no idea where it is. It was almost a relief when after about 20-odd pages the notes were overtaken by leprous rot.

I leaned back in my chair and lit another cigarette. As I smoked, disgust and curiosity mingled in my mind. It was headier than whiskey and the buzz harder was to get rid of. Assuming I was right and this ghost was Wooster, what could explain the spirit's behaviour in the kitchen? And who, or what, was 'birdie'? I had a gut feeling that once I found out what 'birdie' was, I could rid Colney Hatch of the spirit. I felt the familiar thrill of the chase and knew as I snuffed the cigarette out and reached for another that I needed to learn as much of the history of the unfortunate Mr. Bertram Wooster as I could. And curiosity however morbid is best satisfied as quickly as possible. After all, I would hate to have any portion of my psyche running about Colney Hatch until some poor sod was called to investigate.

* * *

“Are you sure the name is Glossop? G-l-o-s-s-o-p?” My pencil tapped a staccato rhythm on my notebook and I paced back and forth.

“Yes, that's the name,” the man's voice on the phone said in a placid voice, seemingly oblivious to my incredulity.

“They wouldn't happen to relations of a Sir Roderick Glossop, would they?”

A pause and I heard the distant clacking of keys. “Why, yes, they are. Angela Glossop, née Travers, was Mr. Wooster's cousin. She married Hildebrand Glossop, whose uncle's name was Sir Roderick Glossop.”

“And you said there are still members of the family in the ancestral home?”

“Yes, sir, at Brinkly Court in Totleigh-in-the-Wold. It appears that Mrs. Angela Glossop and Hildebrand Glossop are both deceased, but their daughter Ms. Glossop-Russell lives there with her husband.”

I jotted the information down on my pad. “Brinkley Court, Totleigh-in-the-Wold. Got it. Thanks.”

I hung up and sat still for a few moments digesting this new piece of information. The plot was getting thicker. Wooster had been committed by the woman whose daughter was to marry the nephew of the man who ran Colney Hatch. My call to the records office had also told me that Wooster was a young aristocrat. His family was expansive, but it seemed that the only ancestral seat which had survived the century was Brinkley Court. I had to see Brinkley Court. I made the proper calls, and got myself a date with the old country seat that very weekend.

That done, I remained seated at my desk for a long time. I watched the filmy light slink from the windows like last night's drunks creeping away at the break of dawn. Then I decided it was time for Dr. Weininger's notebook and a nice handle of Britain's strongest and clearest trade places. The first sip tasted like a glimpse into a better, brighter, kinder world. A world where loving aunts didn't consign their bachelor nephews to the care of psychiatric professionals drunk at the wheel of scientific inquiry. A world where nothing went bump in the night. A world where no one would need the services of a materialist working as the world's most depressed paranormal investigator.


	5. Chapter 5

I was showered, shaven and suited up as best I knew how when I drove to Brinkley Court. I may be a ghost hunter, but I knew how to not dress or smell like one. I'd been on the road for an hour and a half, and the freeway had given out to clusters of small towns which had, in turn, dissolved into long rolling hills of tireless gray. I checked my directions and turned right into a long driveway which led me to an impressively large mansion in the best Regency era style. It was nicely kept, but the facade had seen better days and judging by the number of dark windows the Glossop-Russell family had closed off much of the house.

My car was distinctly outclassed even if my necktie wasn't, but I took comfort in the fact that reporter's cars are expected to look like junk. This dismal afternoon I was posing as a journalist working on a book project about the “rehabilitation” of homosexual men in Britain during the first half of the 20th century. When investigating, telling someone you're a ghost hunter is a sure way to be shown the door. Except when it's not, and that's usually worse.

I rang the bell, which didn't work, before pounding my fist on the magisterial door. I got the sense that the building had straightened itself up and was eyeing my unfashionable suit with disapprobation. The door opened, and I stepped back and gave the woman who appeared behind it a smile which could disarm an enraged bull at ten paces. I extended my hand.

“Ms. Glossop-Russell, I presume?”

She was tall, lanky woman, with light wavy hair and a tired expression which belied her fresh suit. She must have been in her late 60s. She gave me a polite smile and shook my hand firmly but cordially. “You must be Mark Bernard. Do come in.”

I followed her into a large foyer which while impeccably neat was sparsely furnished. “Thank you for this  
interview, Ms. Glossop-Russell. I understand that it is difficult to be asked these sorts of questions about your family.”

“Please, don't mention it. Honestly, I don't know how much I can tell you. My grandparents didn't like to speak of what happened. It was so long ago, now. And please, call me Emily.”

I followed her into the library, which, unlike the rest of the mansion, was furnished. The shelves were crowded with books. “Are these all original to the house?”

She favored me with another sagging smile, a genuine one this time. “Many of them, yes, but my husband and I have been adding to the collection. Would you like some tea?”

I shook my head and took out my notebook. “That's very kind of you, but I don't want to take up too much of your time. Are you ready to begin?”

She nodded.

“Bertram Wooster was your grandmother Angela Glossop's cousin, is that correct?”

“Yes, he was. My mother always said they were fast friends, even towards the end when there wasn't much left of him. I barely remember the man myself.”

“What? You met Bertram Wooster?” That was strange. I couldn't imagine anyone with enough sense to fill a thimble allowing a child to visit a mental institution of the unsavory Colney Hatch variety.

She regarded me quizzically. “Of course I met Bertram Wooster. He lived here.”

My pencil lead snapped on my notebook and I gaped at her like a trout pulled out of the wet stuff. “What? How long did he live here?” My mind raced. So he didn't die in Colney Hatch. Spirits only haunt places where they've spent long periods of time or spots where they underwent a sudden, traumatic death. I took a deep breath and composed my expression before clicking my mechanical pencil.

She sighed. “Perhaps I had better start at the beginning and tell you what I know about my unfortunate relative. I was six years old when he died, but I don't think much of his mind was left after what happened. My grandmother nursed him personally, and she was the only adult he seemed to recognize. He didn't speak very much, and when he did he said things in a slurred and disjointed way that frightened me. He would also become easily confused about where he was and who was around him. Once,” she added, furrowing her brow, “he called my father Reginald.”

She paused, her eyes distant. “As I mentioned to you before, I don't remember him well, but I was fond of him and he loved children. My brother and I would play in the same room and he would watch us, and sometimes he would play songs on the piano. They were usually cheerful songs, but something about the way he played them would always make me cry. I hated it when he spoke, but he had the most beautiful blue eyes. I remember thinking that he always looked sad, even when watching us or holding me in his lap.”

She cast her eyes downward and put the back of her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were suspiciously full. I wondered what kind of man Bertram Wooster must have been to make someone weep at his memory after more than fifty years. That's more than can be said for most of us, and as for me, I'd be lucky if anyone noticed I was dead in time to prevent the stench.

Emily collected herself and continued “I didn't learn what had happened to him until I was much, much older. Things were different back then. No one talked about that kind of thing. It was considered a disgrace to the family. I know that Bertie had suffered a nervous collapse in his mid to late 30s, before the second World War. He was sent away to an institution, and they couldn't treat him. I was told he had surgery to fix him, but it did not leave him much of himself after. He was deemed safe enough to be returned to his family, and my great-grandmother, Dahlia Travers, offered to move him here. My grandmother and grandfather took care of him until he passed away in his sleep when I was six years old.” Her wrinkled hands worried the hem of her jacket and she looked down at her desk.

“Did you know why he was shut away?” I asked, trying to mask my burning curiosity with solicitous concern.

She sighed and nodded. “When I was a young woman, I decided I wanted to find out what had happened to poor Bertie. Grandma Angela was still with us, although her health was failing fast. My mother was tending her at the time. Since I knew grandmother didn't like to talk about what happened, I researched a bit on my own and I found . . . I learned there had been a criminal trial.”

“A criminal trial? What was the charge?”

“Gross indecency.” She glanced up and met my eyes again. “When I discovered what had happened I was upset and confronted my mother. I demanded to know why she had never told me. I have never been very good at keeping secrets from her,” she added with a sad smile. “My mother was furious. I hardly blame the poor woman. Between taking care of Angela and living with Bertie in the house most of her life, she wanted to leave the tragic incident behind her. She had seen it cause so much pain and division in the family..”

I leaned forward eagerly. “But do you know what happened? Who brought him to court? Was he reported by a servant? Caught in a bathhouse raid?”

Emily put her hand up to silence me and shook her head. “I don't know, Mr. Bernard. My mother told me that she had known about Mr. Wooster's illness—and do forgive me for calling it such, but that is how we thought of it in those days—but had decided not to tell me because she did not want me to think differently of the gentle but simple man who lived with us. She said it would do nothing but make me think ill of good people who tried to help and protect Bertie as best they knew how. And so,” she added softly, “I never asked. Since there was a trial I assume it must still be on public record. I don't mind you looking into the case now after all these years and my dear mother has passed on, but I must remind you, Mr. Bernard, that you are only allowed to use this information if you keep the names of my family and Brinkley Court out of your book.”

I nodded. “Of course. I will only ask one more thing of you, Emily. Are there any artifacts that Wooster may have left behind—books, papers, that sort of thing—still in Brinkley Court? And if so, might I have a look at them and take some with me? I'll return them, of course, but they may be valuable for my research.”

“As a matter of fact I happen to know where Bertie's things were stored in the attic,” she replied. “I used to play hide-and-go-seek in there when I was a girl and I found a few boxes marked 'BWW.' You are welcome to look through them and take what you please.”

I could scarcely believe my good fortune. “Why thank you, Emily, that is most generous.”

She took a deep breath and stood, signaling the end to our interview. “Follow me to the attic and you can look through Bertie's old things. I will be in the library if you need anything.”

I followed her through the dim, cavernous chambers of the house, up three flights of stairs, through a long, disused corridor and up another floor. I maintained my polite, calm exterior while my mind raced. Now I knew two things that threw a wrench into my working hypothesis. First, Wooster had died in Brinkley Court. Second, he could only have been in Colney Hatch for a few years. Not only would I need to reconsider the facts of the case, but I couldn't shake the sinking feeling that something deeper, darker, was going on.

When she opened the door to the attic and hit an old-fashioned switch, a space which could contain the rat hole I rent as an apartment five times over was bathed with anemic light.

“Here are the boxes Dahlia kept. I hope you don't mind the dust. No one's looked in them for years.” She showed me to a corner of the attic where, sure enough, there were two crates, one larger and the other smaller, both stamped BWW.

As soon as Emily left, I pried the lid off first and the largest of the crates like a girl opening a love letter, only twice as eagerly. It was full of old books. I scanned the titles as I fished them out. Among the books which any young Englishman would own (Kingsley, Tennyson, Shakespeare, Kipling—the usual literary suspects at private boarding schools Wooster had likely attended) were dozens of dog-eared shilling shockers and mystery serials. The only anomaly was a single volume entitled Only a Factory Girl, which looked like some early 20th century dreck romance probably read by tearful young females with a penchant for monogrammed lacy handkerchiefs. Hardly the kind of fare someone likely to favor Cargo of Doom and Tingling Spine Mystery Stories would tolerate. Must have belonged to his cousin, I thought as I worked my way down through the piles of books. To my surprise, instead of more ghastly detective fiction, five or six large bundles of typewritten pages which could only be manuscripts lined the bottom of the crate. I pulled one out and squinted at it in the weak light.

It read:

Jeeves and the Tie that Binds

By Bertram Wilberforce Wooster.

 _Wooster was a writer_ , I mused, as I scanned the first few paragraphs. It was a comic novel written from Wooster's point of view. I flipped through a few pages and recognized the names. The young sop wrote autobiographical comic novels. Looks like my luck hasn't run out just yet. I gathered all the manuscripts, six total, and set them aside. I thought they might give me the insight I needed into Wooster's psychology so I could begin to solve the mystery of how he came to be wandering around Colney Hatchif he didn't die there. I thought it might tell me what 'birdie' was so I could figure out how to dispel whatever remained of him.

I turned my attentions to the smaller box, which was crammed with papers and other memorabilia. I spent at least an hour rifling through letters, telegrams, and notes for Bertie's novels and found next to nothing of interest except his admittance and release papers from Colney Hatch. The dates on the papers confirmed what I'd learned, which was that Wooster had only been treated there for a little less than three years. There were also a few odds and ends, such as a pair of very fine cufflinks and a faded certificate which read “Malvern House Preparatory School Prize awarded to Bertram Wilberforce Wooster for Scripture Knowledge,” but nothing which struck me as at all useful for my purposes.

I was about to begin replacing the small mountain of paper which had amassed back in the empty box when something caught my attention. Barely visible, the corner of a photograph peeked out of a rip in the seam in the lining of the box. It must have slipped in there by mistake. Carefully, I extracted three faded photographs from their nest in the the brittle fabric and glanced over them. They were striking.

The oldest one showed an attractive young couple, seated side by side. The mother dangled a wide-eyed toddler on her knee. All three—mother, father, child—were smiling. I guessed by the cut of their clothes that the picture must be of his parents, before they died. The next photograph was of a young man whom I knew immediately must be Bertram Wooster and a manservant. I looked closely at the young aristocrat's face. He was handsome, but in spite of the flattering way his impeccably cut suit outfitted his lanky figure, there was something ineffably boyish and child-like in the arrangement of his long limbs and the carefree cast of his features. His smile looked like it could warm the temperature of a room and even in the flat grayscale of the old photograph his eyes were expressive and bright. So this guileless young man is my ghost, I thought wryly. Huh. He really doesn't look like the type. I was going to set it aside to glance at the last picture when I paused over the unexpectedly arresting figure of the manservant. He was a tall man clad in a black morning coat standing just behind and to the left of where Bertie sat. Though his expression was a studied blank, something in the upward tilt of the right corner of his mouth spoke volumes. But, I thought as I scrutinized the unknown man's face for further information, those volumes are written in a language I sure as hell don't speak.

I almost didn't recognize the man in the last photograph as Bertram Wooster. Unlike the first two, it was shot in color, but the hues had bled out of the photograph, faded beyond all but the faintest recognition. Wooster sat outdoors in a wheelchair with a blanket tucked over his lap against a backdrop of empty sky and dead trees. His hair was streaked with white and his eyes stared off unseeing into the middle distance. Judging by the date on the back, this photo must have been taken only a few years before he died.

That photograph made my gut twist. I couldn't look at it anymore. I slid the last two pictures into one of the manuscripts, repacked the box, hoisted the evidence down the rickety stairs and said a quick goodbye to Emily. I left Brinkley Court with a head more full of questions than when I'd started, but at least I now knew where to look.


	6. Chapter 6

My hands itched for the papers from Wooster's trial like a dog with fleas, but a quick internet search told me that the archives were closed on Mondays. This gave me a day to kill. I was three weeks too late for the milk in my fridge, so I drank coffee black as sin as I crouched over my desk at home that stormy day, writing up and reading through my case notes. Around three in the afternoon I picked up the manuscript entitled _Jeeves and the Tie that Binds_ and began to read. _Maybe, I thought, I'll be able to crack this case without even looking at the court documents._

I don't know what I had been expecting when I began to pour over those pages, but it wasn't the elegant, meandering, idyllic narrative which I breezed through in a matter of hours. Wooster's writing was a work of anecdotal genius, a touching portrait of a child-like young bachelor and his enigmatic manservant. It was charming, and I am not a man easily charmed. Most of all, I was taken with Wooster himself, who throughout the novel remained endearingly unaware of both his own shortcomings and his own native kindness and generosity of spirit. Such was the power of the lighthearted prose that for a few moments after I finished the last chapter I forgot who the author was and where he had ended up for all his grace and charm.

When I did remember, I decided I needed a G&T. It was beginning to hurt to think.

After the first two drinks I became maudlin.

Another three, and I waxed philosophical.

I fumbled with the papers and pulled out the photograph of Bertie when he was a young man. It must have been the arctic cold of my flat which made my vision blurry as I stared at his blithe expression and lithesome form. I knew now, of course, that the valet standing behind him must be Jeeves, almost as mysterious in Bertie's writings as he was staring out of that ancient photograph with what I now thought was probably a smile. _What kind of world is this? What went so tragically wrong with our species that we would persecute poor, hapless, harmless Bertram Wooster?_ These are the sort of useless thoughts I would have never allowed myself if the drinks hadn't turned my well-ordered republic of a mind to near-anarchy. Then, in the chaos of foolish, impotent rage, a half-formed suspicion roused itself. I picked up the manuscript once more and re-read its final paragraphs carefully.

 _"In taking this step, sir, I do not feel that I have inflicted on the Junior Ganymede club. The club book was never intended to be light and titillating reading for the members. Its function is solely to acquaint those who are contemplating taking new posts with the foibles of prospective employers. This being so, there is no need for the record contained in the eighteen pages in which you figure. For I may hope, may I not sir, that you will allow me to remain permanently in your service?"  
"You may indeed Jeeves. It often beats me, though, why with your superlative gifts you should want to."  
"There is a tie that binds, sir."  
"A tie that whats?"  
"A tie that binds, sir."_

 _"Then heaven bless it, and may it continue to bind indefinitely. Fate's happenstance may oft win more than toil, as the fellow said."  
"What fellow would that be, sir? Thoreau?"_

 _"No, me."  
"Sir?"_

 _"A little thing of my own. I don't know what it means, but you can take it as coming straight from the heart."  
"Very good, sir."  
_

Permanently in your service. A tie that binds. May it continue to bind indefinitely. Straight from the heart. Good god. The only mystery here, I mused hazily, was how I had missed it the first time around. This was an epiphany I should have had as soon as he started dithering about rainbows and euphoria over eggs and b. in the first two pages.

Bertram Wooster was unquestionably in love with his valet. His adoration was inscribed in nearly every word the poor son of a bitch wrote about this paragon of a manservant. And if the last paragraphs were anything more than mere wishful thinking on Wooster's part, there was no doubt that Jeeves was, in fact, Bertie's lover.

 _Fate's happenstance may sometimes win more than toil_ , I thought grimly as I got up a bit unsteadily to pour myself a sixth, _but it's far more likely to knife you in the back and leave you for dead._ As I sat back down, my drink clutched like a lifeline in my trembling hand, I wondered what on earth had happened to Jeeves.

I turned the photographs face-down on the desk. I couldn't bear to look at Jeeves' crooked half-smile, which now seemed gentle and fond, and Bertie's face, which glowed with happiness. His eyes in the picture taken at Brinkley Court looked more empty and alone than before.

* * *

The next day I found myself on a train bound for London. My destination: the National Archives at Kew. As I stared out the windows into the veil of endless gray rain, I was sure of two things. One, when I found out what happened during the trial, I would learn what happened to Jeeves. Perhaps he denounced Wooster. Perhaps they had a fight and he ran away and Wooster got careless. Either way, something had severed the tie that binds. Two, I knew that my head felt like a steam pipe had burst in my brain. The night before I'd continued to down G&Ts, reading the remaining manuscripts and chain smoking until my eyes couldn't follow the lines and my throat was too raw to swallow. At every turn this case made me want to place a buffer of several stiff drinks between me and the cruel world. Such shelter has its price, I pondered as I swallowed large mouthfuls of water and tented the newspaper over my aching eyes.

When I finally stepped out onto the street and walked towards the National Archives building, the paper which had served me as a blindfold transformed into a makeshift umbrella, I felt a little less like a railroad spike had been driven through my head. I stepped inside, shook the rain from my jacket and made my way to the desk. “Hi,” I said to the bespectacled man behind the desk. “I need access to a criminal case from 1937 which was held in the Old Bailey. Defendant W-o-o-s-t-e-r, Bertram.”

After a few moments of typing, the man looked up at me and asked, “Bertram Wilberforce Wooster?”

"That's the one.”

“There are two defendants listed in this case, sir. Are you sure this is the one you want?”

“Oh? Who's the other?”

“Reginald Jeeves.”

* * *

I spent at least a minute staring at the file in front of me, torn between my bloodhound curiosity and sickening apprehension. Curiosity won out. It always does.

I took a breath, opened the file, and read:

 

 _JEEVES, Reginald (servant, 44), b—g—y with WOOSTER, Bertram Wilberforce (37, gentleman). Pleaded guilty._

 _Mr. Percy Wells prosecuted._

 _GEORGE D'ARCY CHEESEWRIGHT, Police Sargeant working in Mayfair and friend of defendant Wooster's family._

 _I have been acquainted with Wooster since we were both in school, and I worked as a policeman in the county where his Aunt Agatha lives before transferring to London. You can imagine my surprise when I received information from a witness who has asked to remain anonymous that the man was a pervert and performed grossly indecent acts in his flat. So I took a few of my men and investigated. We knocked but received no answer. The door was unlocked so I walked in and found Wooster with his valet in the midst of an unnatural act—on the chesterfield of all places. I immediately placed both of them under arrest._

 _Witness cross examined. Police constable Brandington confirms witness' account. Suspects were placed under arrest at 9 o clock pm._

 _REGINALD JEEVES, defendant._

 _I have served as valet to Mr. Wooster for over ten years and am fully and solely responsible for the crime. I took advantage of him. He is mental negligible if not mentally incompetent, and I have held sway over him a long time. He has never engaged in such activities while I have been in his service prior to my forcing them upon him._

 _Cross examined. Collection of immoral literature brought to evidence._

 _BERTRAM WOOSTER, defendant._

 _I am not barmy. I am sound of mind and body. I am a grown man and not a helpless child. I knew full well what I was doing and if that makes me a moral disgrace then so be it. I care about Jeeves as much as any cove ever cared for a filly, and probably more._

 _Cross examined. Evinced increasing signs of distress, belligerence, and mental disturbance. Had to be forcibly restrained from attempting to gain entrance into the room where the other defendant was interred._

 _DAHLIA TRAVERS, Wooster's aunt._

 _My nephew has a strange but good-natured temperament. He's tried to get engaged to numerous girls, but they have always broken it off. His parents died when he was young so he has never had proper adult guidance. Insanity runs in the family. His uncle remained unmarried and was institutionalized years ago. Perhaps the strain became too much for him._

 _Cross examined. Witness became uncivil to the prosecutor. Asked to leave the court._

 _LADY AGATHA WORPLESTON. I have long suspected Jeeves of abusing his position with my nephew. He has always been too forward and opinionated for a servant, and his influence on my spineless nephew is strong._

 _Cross examined. Added that she suspected Jeeves had been responsible for the failure of Wooster's many engagements._

 _SIR RODERICK GLOSSOP, nerve specialist and friend of the family._

 _Mr. Wooster has shown signs of dangerous imbalance in the past. I was visiting his apartment when he was engaged to my daughter, Honoria, and my wife and I discovered that he had kept 24 cats in his bedroom. I have also heard from others Mr. Wooster is well-known for his eccentricities. It is my personal and professional recommendation that he be given over to professional care. This is a step his family ought to have taken years ago._

 _Cross examined._

 _Verdict:_

 _Bertram Wilberforce Wooster_

 _Guilty_

 _Deemed mentally incompetent, recommended to Colney Hatch Sanatorium for indefinite interment and treatment._

 _Verdict:_

 _Reginald Jeeves_

 _Guilty._

 _Ten years penal servitude.  
_

 

I read the brief document two, three more times, trying to read the truth of the matter between the typed lines of maddeningly sterile summary. Two things stood out. First, if Wooster's writings were any indication, he and Jeeves must have been lovers from quite early on in Jeeves' employment. For so many years they must have taken great pains to avert discovery during their long and numerous visits to the country houses of Wooster's friends and relations. If they had been careful for so long, how could Jeeves of all people ravish Wooster in the living room of their flat behind an unlocked door? I was willing to bet every pound I was making on this lucratively complicated case that Sargeant Cheesewright had suspected the two of them and set them up. He certainly hated Wooster enough. In any case, two plus two don't equal zero, and the whole thing stank worse than a dead rat.

The other testimony that didn't sit well with me was that of Reginald Jeeves himself. Of course his story fit the expectations of British magistrates better than a tailored suit. That's just what gave me pause. It was a tailored story, custom made for the stupidities and prejudices of his audience. Intelligent, conniving, predatory older manservant corrupts a guileless, imbecilic younger employer with a mad strain in his aristocratic blood. The plot could have been lifted out of the seediest penny dreadful. And it didn't account for all the facts. Leave it to the unimaginative British court system to fail to ask the important question: what were Jeeves' motives? Would someone as cavalier and disinterested in Wooster as Jeeves made himself out to be take pains to specify that it was him and him alone who was responsible for the affair? I knew enough about Jeeves' intelligence to be certain that he was perfectly aware of the consequences of his testimony. And that must have been worth it for him.

I had to know what had happened to this remarkable man. I needed to know if he and Wooster ever were able to see one another again. If Jeeves had gone on after serving his sentence to have another life. If he had ever found out what happened to his beloved master. I couldn't decide if it would be worse if he had never seen nor heard from the man he evidently must have loved after the trial or if he had learned what happened to Wooster at the hands of Roderick Glossop. Either way, I had to know.

I was in the perfect place to find out. I scooped up the file and went downstairs to the desk.

“Hey,” I greeted the man at the records desk. “I need you to find me the death certificate for J-e-e-v-e-s, Reginald.”

After typing in the computer, he disappeared for a long time before returning with a piece of paper. I don't know why I was so anxious. Whatever the words on the certificate, Jeeves himself was past caring one way or the other. In spite of my theoretical indifference, I admit that my heart sank when I read that he had fallen ill and died after serving five years of his sentence in February of 1941. He was 49 years old.


	7. Chapter 7

That same night. Midnight. I sat in my office. My case notes, Dr. Weininger's notes, a copy of the trial transcript, the blueprints to Colney Hatch, the photographs, Wooster's manuscripts, a copy of Jeeves' death certificate and an overflowing ash tray were arrayed in front of me. I contemplated lighting another cigarette, then suited thought to deed. _Wooster called them 'gaspers'_ , I thought a little wistfully and not a little manically as the end of my cigarette flared to life.

I had been there for hours. I'd resolved not to go home until I'd unraveled this Gordian knot or until it unraveled me. So far the score was not in my favor, but, dammit, I knew that if I went home the problem would give me no peace. That, and the heating for this building was included in the rent. I rubbed my aching eyes and looked down at my notebook to review what I had to show for my vigil so far.

“'Birdie' is the key. Hypothesis 1: Often refers to men as 'birds' in the manuscript. Looking for men generally? Even in the afterlife a good man is hard to find. Implausible. Nonsensical even. Hypothesis 2: 'birdie' is a place. Brinkley? Again, unlikely. Hardly a homophone for 'Brinkley,' and unless he still misses Anatole's dinners doubt he would be looking to go back there. Besides, spent decades at the end of his life there and nothing unusual reported around Brinkley Court. Hypothesis 3: 'birdie' is some kind of name. Pet name for Jeeves? Reginald and Jeeves not even remotely related to 'birdie.' Jeeves also doesn't seem like the type to tolerate pet names any more than he would a polkadotted tie. Hypothesis 4: ---"

So much for my theories. Hypothesis four was nothing more than a series of doodles of the facade of Delia Hall. I ground my cigarette out in frustration, pulled one of Wooster's manuscripts out and began scanning through for the third time that evening. There had to be something. I refused to give up. Wooster's life had enough misfortune; his psychical leftovers didn't need to spend the rest of eternity trapped in that horrible place frightening security guards out of their wits. He didn't deserve it. I couldn't fix the damage that had been done, but it was within my power to let what remained of him find what I wanted to believe was peace. I had to believe I could do it. I kept reading until I'd turned the last page and stared at its blank, yellowed back, willing it to surrender its secrets.

Then it clicked like a cocked revolver. The spirit wasn't saying “birdie”; it was Bertie. And Bertie wouldn't be wandering around Colney Hatch shouting his own name. Which meant that I was wrong. The spirit wasn't Bertie Wooster. It was looking for him. A jolt like an electric shock ran down my spine. Good god, is that possible? I reached reach for a cigarette to help me gather myself and found my hand was shaking.

It accounted for 'birdie.' It even explained the spirit's conduct when it found itself in the kitchen, as well as its peculiarly strong reaction when I'd asked it if it belonged there. I may not have been a good scientist anymore, but I was still a scientist. I knew that hypotheses had to change when confronted with facts they couldn't explain. The fact I didn't want to face, the fact which turned my neat, comfortable theory on its head, was that this spirit had never been to Colney Hatch in life. He had traveled over half the world to search for Bertie.

Because who could this spirit be if not Reginald Jeeves?

* * *

Being a paranormal investigator has taught me two things: 1., the foresight to ask for a cash advance and 2., the ability to not think about something long enough to enable me to do something. And it was this second ability which was being stretched to breaking point as I prepared to begin my third and, if all went well, last journey to Colney Hatch. I will not think about how powerful Jeeves' love for Bertie must have been to enable him to make such a long journey after so many years, I told myself as I stuffed my EVP recorder into my bag. I will not think about what this means was my mantra as I carefully slid the photographs into my inner coat pocket. I will not let my investment in this case cloud my judgment, I swore as I stepped outside into the autumn night. I have a job to do.

* * *

The night was deathly still and deadly cold when I stepped out of my car. I moved silently as possible through the dim forms of the Colney Hatch buildings. Every snapped twig and every echoing footstep I made strained my nerves, which were already wound tighter than piano strings. Finally I stood in the shadow of Delia Hall cast by the full moon. Here's where it all began and here's where it all ends. I stepped into the black threshold, my torch clutched in a white-knuckled hand.

I paused and concentrated on the faint feeling of presence. There is always a danger of reading into things retrospectively, but then again feelings are also easier to zero in on when there are words for them. So though the presence was no stronger than it had been before, I thought I could recognize desperation, despair, longing. For some reason, this lent me a precarious equilibrium as I retraced the now familiar path through the eerie spaces inside the hall and stepped into the hallway of open doors. I knew as I walked to Room 32 that it—he—was already inside.

I stood in the middle of Room 32, my flashlight switched on. I had planned in advance what I was going to say. “Jeeves?” I began in a soft voice. “I know you are here. I also know you can hear and understand me. I also know what you are looking for-”

“Bertie.” A voice almost inaudible sighed from some indefinable place. In fact, the whole room seemed to breathe the name.

“Bertie isn't here. Bertie has not been here for a very long time. Look.” I pulled out the photograph of Bertie at Brinkley Court. “He was kept here, but they treated him for three years and sent him home. He . . . he died decades ago. He spent the rest of his life broken, cared for by his cousin Angela.” Feelings of grief and pain sharp as knives shot through me and the light bulb in my torch shattered. I stood in the dark, my heart racing. I heard footsteps, slow, halting, heavy.

I felt moved to say something I had not carefully scripted before driving to this dark and dangerous place. Without thinking, I addressed Jeeves once again. “He's not here,” I repeated, more loudly, “and he died alone in Brinkley Court. But I think,” I sucked in a deep breath, hardly knowing myself, “I know he loved you until the end. Watched for you. Waited for you. But you won't find him waiting here. Not anymore.”

A shadow moved in my periphery vision between me and the moonlight streaming through the window. I turned, and for a long moment was face to face with Jeeves himself. He stood in front of me, eyes boring into mine. It made no sense, it made no goddamn sense, but tears slid down his cheeks. His mouth moved and though he made no sound I read from his lips Bertie.

Then he vanished without a trace and I was left standing in an empty room.

* * *

I don't know how long I stood in the dark, partly terrified, partly transfixed, completely overwhelmed by what I had seen. When I came to myself I found that Delia Hall wasn't any less frightening without a specter. The sheer void of all the rooms and all the buildings fell on my mind like a crushing weight and I made my way through the ruinous hall to where my car waited outside. When I was finally able to collect myself enough to fit the key into the ignition, I glanced down at my hands. All my hair was standing on end. I became aware of a noise like a double rhythm beaten on a funeral drum and recognized, after a few harrowing moments, that it was the sound of my own heart racing. I peeled out of the driveway faster than a greyhound on amphetamines.

My mind wasn't large enough to wrap itself around what I had experienced, what I saw, what I knew—it could only fathom one facet of it.

I didn't want to think about it. Couldn't think about it. So I decided to drive to my office and write Ronald Cartwright a big fat bill for my trouble. Wonder if I could write psychiatry bills off my taxes? I thought as I pulled into the dark parking lot. I took a few deep breaths before stepping out into the frigid night and letting myself into the office. I shed my coat and poured myself a tall glass of straight gin from my emergency stock in my bottom drawer. Normally I say thank god for small emergencies, but tonight I really needed something to put a little distance between me and what happened.

I sat down, fished out my notebook and found myself calming considerably. There is something comforting in the cold materiality of owing rent.

I had nearly compartmentalized my unruly thoughts and finished tallying Mr. Cartwright's grand total when I lit my sixth cigarette and began looking for my travel receipts. All of the notices for my petrol were balled in the pocket of my jeans, but as I flipped through them and jotted down the dates and totals I realized that the sales receipt for my train ticket to London was missing. As I fumbled about in my coat pockets, my fingers brushed against the edge of the photograph which was still in the lining of my coat. I pulled it out thinking maybe the receipt was deeper in the pocket, but as soon as the photograph came into the light I froze, unable to look away . Bertie Wooster was seated in his wheelchair as before, but his eyes had grown softer and his face looked indescribably peaceful. But this was not what made my blood turn to ice in my veins.

Where there once was nothing but an empty lawn and dying trees, an unmistakable dark figure clad in a morning coat with a sad half-smile stood just behind him.


End file.
